Brother Sam
by Vermilion Angel
Summary: There's a killer on the loose, but how do you catch a madman with no motive, no evidence and no way of knowing when he'll strike next?
1. Chapter 1

Hey there guys, it's me again! I still don't own anything or earn anything. sigh. Thanks to e-pony for kindly cleaning up my abysmal scrawl. This one has chapters, gasp! We'll see how that goes...

* * *

**Brother Sam**

**The first Act.  
**

Bay City, California, like most major metropolitan areas, never really slept. However, the constant tide of human life did ebb and flow within it, and at ten to six in the morning the streets were relatively quiet. This was especially so in the theatre district of the lower city, where things only really started to jump in the evening.

A morning mist was rising over the rooftops, reflecting the first dawn light. It was going to be another clear day. A patrol car turned down east 52nd Street and drove slowly along the line of buildings, stopping in front of the Cornwall Theatre. One of the officers stretched and yawned, waiting for his partner to get organized; then both men made their way into the alley beside the theatre.

By the time Starsky and Hutch arrived, the sun was barely skimming the rooftops, and the alley was bathed in dusky half-light. The Torino pulled up behind the ambulance that had arrived twenty minutes earlier. Its two attendants leaned against the vehicle smoking, patiently waiting for the body they'd come to collect. A small crowd huddled on the other side of the road, but they showed no inclination of getting any closer to the scene.

Hutch exited the car first, yawning. Starsky followed, a silent shadow in his wake.

"It's too early," the blond said.

His partner nodded and headed toward the darkness between the buildings. He shivered as he waited for his eyes to adjust. "Damn, it's cold in here," he muttered.

"You wouldn't be cold if you'd had a decent breakfast," Hutch replied.

"Uh-huh. I don't remember you eating anything this morning. I practically had to drag you outta bed."

"I had a late night," Hutch countered defensively.

"A late night? With who?"

"With whom," the blond corrected automatically.

Starsky shrugged. "With **whom**?"

"Anna Karenina," Hutch said. "I guess time sort of got away from me."

"Anna who… uh, _whom_?"

Hutch sighed and shook his head in defeat. "It doesn't matter."

Starsky eyed his partner suspiciously. "You should keep away from those Russian chicks. You know what the last one did for you." Before Hutch could answer, the brunet turned and walked forward to greet one of the uniformed investigators.

The officer in charge of the forensics team was a slightly overweight, bearded man, who was crouched next to a wall, sorting small pieces of trash into evidence bags. He ignored the detectives for a moment after they greeted him, but finally stood up with a grunt of exertion. "Morning detectives," he said. "I suppose you want the basics?"

Starsky and Hutch glanced at one another.

"If it's no trouble," Hutch replied sarcastically.

"Oh, no trouble," the specialist said offhandedly. "Your victim's name is Annie Pierce – twenty-one, brunette, but otherwise unremarkable."

"What happened?"

"Can't say for sure, but she's got multiple stab wounds to the chest, and her throat's been cut. I'd say time of death was sometime around one in the morning, give or take. Skirt's pulled up, but she's still wearin' her panties." The officer shrugged. "That's about it. Coroner'll be able to tell you more when he gets her on the slab."

"Witnesses?"

"None we're aware of. But the guy who found the body's up by the stage door."

"Anything else?"

The specialist shook his head. "Not right now. Get back to me later."

"Thanks," Starsky said. He stepped past the officer and walked toward the stage door, passing two more men zipping the body into a bag.

"There's certainly a lot of blood," Hutch observed, careful to avoid stepping in any

potential evidence.

"Yeah, looks like this is our main crime scene," Starsky sighed.

Hutch patted his partner on the shoulder, a gesture of solidarity, before continuing toward the door, where another officer was talking with a middle-aged man.

"Excuse me," Starsky said, flipping open his badge. "You found the body?"

The man looked at him and nodded. "Yeah. My name's Lionel, Lionel Marlow. I'm… I'm a director, Annie's boss."

"I'm Detective Sergeant Starsky, and this is Detective Sergeant Hutchinson. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

Lionel nodded, obviously shaken. "Of course."

"Perhaps we could go inside?" Hutch suggested.

Lionel nodded again, then unlocked the stage door to let them through. The three men entered the closest dressing room and sat down to talk.

Lionel was tall and slender. He spoke very precisely, even though he was shaking and wringing his hands in his lap. "I can't believe someone could do something so… horrible," he said, his voice breaking.

"We understand this is very difficult for you," Hutch said. "We're very sorry for your loss."

"Yes… I… to be honest, I'm having trouble taking this all in."

"We just want to know a little bit about Annie," Starsky prompted.

"I know," Lionel said, trying to smile. "I suppose you want to know about last night?"

"Were you with her last night?" Hutch spoke again, trying for an encouraging tone.

Lionel blanched. "I, uh… I'm not sure what you…"

"Did you have a performance?" Starsky clarified, although both detectives had noticed the director's response.

"Oh, yes." Lionel forced a smile. "It was our first night in Bay City."

"How'd it go? Any problems?"

"Well, no, I don't think so. The actors were in good spirits, and the audience seemed to enjoy it."

"And what about afterwards? Anyone acting suspiciously, hanging around?"

Lionel furrowed his brow, thinking. "No, no. Not that I recall."

"What time did the performance end?"

"Around nine thirty, ten. Then, we went out to the lounge and met some of the audience. After that we headed to a bar just down the street."

"Did Annie go with you?"

"Yes." Lionel nodded. "She stayed until midnight. I'm afraid she was rather drunk."

"What happened? Why did she come back to the theater?"

"I…" Lionel shook his head. "She left her scarf here."

"And she came back _alone_?"

"No." Lionel shut his eyes and sighed. "I came with her."

"So, what happened?"

Lionel fell silent, watching his hands. The partners exchanged a look, and Hutch went to lean against the make-up table beside Lionel, placing a comforting hand on the director's shoulder. "If you don't tell us something now that we find out about later, it's just going to make things worse," he said gently. "Just tell us; it doesn't have to go any further."

Lionel looked up at him. "But I could lose my job."

"Mr. Marlow, you could lose your job being arrested for murder, too," Starsky said, his tone much more stern then Hutch's had been.

"Oh, no! No, I would never…" Lionel became flustered, looking from Starsky to Hutch desperately. "I couldn't!"

"Then, tell us what did happen," Hutch replied sympathetically.

"I suppose you would have found out sooner or later," Lionel said, defeated. He looked up at Hutch. "I would have never hurt her… you have to believe me."

"Just tell us what happened, Mr. Marlow." Starsky was all business.

"I'm a theatre professor in Atlanta. I wrote this play myself and staged it with the help of some of my students in return for extra credit. It was a surprise hit, and we decided to take it on tour. Somehow we managed to get the funding, and here we are…"

"But what about Annie? Was she one of your students?" Starsky asked.

"Yes, one of my best. As the tour progressed, she and I became… close."

"And you came here to…"

"Yes," Lionel snapped. "We came here to have sex. Her scarf was just a cover for the other actors."

"So what happened next?" Hutch urged gently.

Lionel glanced up, and his expression became miserable again. "We'd both been drinking, and somehow we got into a fight."

"And it got violent?" Starsky asked.

Lionel's head whipped around. "No! I would never have hurt her!"

"Please continue, Mr. Marlow," Hutch said. "What happened after the fight?"

"She said she was going home. I assumed she meant back to our digs. I followed her out, but she was gone. I must have… I must have walked right past her – " Lionel dropped his head into his hands, his voice cracking. "I didn't see her… oh, God!" he began to sob. "Then, I-I found her this morning… I just…"

"All right, Mr. Marlow," Hutch soothed. "That's enough. We'll get someone to take you home."

Starsky got up, frowning at Marlow. "Let's check with the box office and see how many people were here last night."

Hutch nodded, and the partners walked out of the dressing room, leaving the director crying alone.

The stage of the Cornwall Theatre stuck out into a horseshoe-shaped auditorium. There was a small orchestra pit, covered with a board in the front. Both detectives stood in front of the curtain and looked out at the empty seats.

"He seemed genuinely broken up," Starsky observed.

"He had the motive and the opportunity," Hutch replied. "Maybe she threatened to tell someone – his wife maybe – and he decided to shut her up?"

"It's possible," Starsky agreed, surveying the seats. "They had about a hundred and thirty people in here last night, not including the employees. That's about two thirds capacity…."

"Someone could have been waiting for her to be alone."

"That someone coulda been any one of the crowd…"

"Or the actors," Hutch continued with a sighed, "or someone she knew some other way. Or just some yahoo with a knife."

"When I was a kid, I wanted to be an actor," Starsky said. "Bright lights and applause…"

"Living out of suitcases, never having any money…"

Starsky chuckled. "Yeah. But that wasn't the point. I wanted to be famous."

Hutch half-smiled. "You know the really stupid thing?"

"What?"

"So did I."

"Yeah?"

Hutch nodded. "I was gonna be a star – big house, pretty girl on each arm. I auditioned for a play in high school, convinced it'd be my big break."

"And?"

"And what do you think? I froze up, forgot all my lines. I didn't even get past the audition."

"Ouch."

Hutch shrugged, hopping down off the front of the stage. He walked all the way to the back of the theater and then turned back to Starsky. Alone in the spotlight, the brunet mimed being trapped in a box. When Hutch booed him, Starsky simply flipped him off and went backstage. A few minutes later, Hutch joined him.

"Time to see the other actors?" Starsky suggested.

"Yup."

In silence, they climbed into the Torino and headed off towards the address the box office had given them.

**TBC...  
**


	2. Chapter 2

** The Second Act**

Four other actors turned out to be living in the rented house: three young men and a girl. Hutch was dispatched to interview them, while Starsky searched the victim's room. The actors had reluctantly collected on an old sofa, and Hutch now stood in front of them with his notepad, trying to explain what had happened to Annie.

"Someone murdered her?" the girl said in disbelief. "That's crazy!"

Hutch nodded. "I'm afraid so. I need to find out as much as I can about her. Did any of you know her well?"

"Well… I guess," one of the guys said, a tall brunet. "But I'd say Professor Marlow knew her best of all."

A guilty giggle rippled through the actors.

"She was very private," the girl spoke up again.

"And a huge bitch!" another of the guys said, glaring accusingly at the other horrified actors. "Oh, don't tell me you weren't all thinking it."

"So you didn't like her?"

"She was a total princess," the actor replied. "The only reason she was here at all was because the professor was banging her."

"She wasn't a very good actor," the girl added, "but… I don't think any of us wanted her dead."

Her fellow actors echoed this sentiment.

Hutch sighed and then asked a few more questions before deciding enough was enough. "All right." He took out a card and handed it to one of the young men. "If you think of anything else, call. Oh… and don't leave town just yet."

"No. No. We have to do the rest of the shows," the brunet replied. "We can't stop now."

Hutch looked the group over as he turned to go upstairs. "That's right," he muttered sarcastically under his breath. "The show must go on."

The blond detective found his partner still searching Annie's room, which just happened to be next to Lionel's.

"Hadn't even unpacked yet," Starsky said as Hutch walked in. He gestured around the tiny room from where he was sitting on the edge of a neatly made bed. A small book lay open on his lap.

"That her diary?" asked Hutch, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah. I started at yesterday's entry and then went backwards. There ain't nothing to suggest she was suspicious or scared or anything. Just the usual stuff: Sly Stallone is dreamy; I'm sleeping with my teacher for extra credit…" Starsky threw the diary to one side. "I'm starting to suspect Marlow more and more."

"Don't be too hasty, Starsk," Hutch cautioned. "Apparently most of the actors disliked her. At least, none of them seemed too distraught."

Starsky shrugged. "So what now?"

"Well, they all verified Marlow's story as far as the bar – stayed past midnight and got back here around two a.m."

"Did they know the name of the place?"

"Something like the 'Ho-Ho,' not far from the theater."

"Let's check it out," Starsky said, picking up the diary. "Should we take this with us?"

"I don't know, buddy. You read it."

Starsky laid the book gently back into a plain, unzipped suitcase. "All right," he said grimly, "let's go find this bar."

The partners drove around the block twice without success, before checking out some of the other neighborhoods in the area. Eventually they found the "Ha-Ha," an unprepossessing brick building two blocks east of the theater. It was closed, but they quickly discovered the owner putting out trash in the back alley. When questioned, he didn't remember the actors at all. The night had been busy. He also didn't remember anyone acting suspiciously. Disappointed, the detectives soon left, having gained very little in the way of leads.

By the time Starsky and Hutch returned to the precinct, the coroner had finished his autopsy, and they were invited down to go over his findings. They arrived a little after lunchtime. Dr. Morton was waiting for them with a cheerful smile.

"Good afternoon boys," the coroner said. "I've got your victim in number nine." He led them over to the wall of compartments and pulled out a heavy drawer. Then, he gently drew the sheet down to the young woman's waist.

Indicating some slight bruising above the wound on Annie's neck, Dr. Morton remarked, "She has ligature marks around her neck, suggesting her assailant tried to strangle her. By the look of it, he came from behind and grabbed the scarf she was wearing. Then, he slit her throat. Nearly took the poor girl's head off."

He picked up a pair of forceps and pried her neck-wound open. "You see how the cut goes all the way down to the vertebrae?" The coroner pulled the forceps out and pointed to the girl's chest. "The same weapon was then used to stab her. You can see she has some bruising on her lower abdomen…" He pulled the sheet down further to expose her stomach, pointing out a large, egg-shaped bruise. "I think this could be form the killer's knee. The bruise is post-mortem, as are her chest wounds, which is why I believe he slit her throat first."

"But why go to all this trouble?" Starsky asked. "The girl was already dead, so why cut her up like this?"

"That, my friends, is your puzzle. I'm just the technician; you're the intellectuals."

The detectives were aware of a certain amount of sarcasm from the doctor, but they took it with their usual good humor.

"You must have some idea," Starsky said. "I mean, you've been doing this job for what, a hundred years?"

The doctor laughed. "Gentlemen, when the first prospectors finally made it through to California, I was here, waiting for them. Now…" He pulled the sheet back up to cover the girl. "What else can I tell you? Her skirt was hitched up, but there are no signs of sexual assault."

"She was making out with her professor, and she didn't have time to straighten her skirt?" Starsky said.

"That could explain it," The coroner replied. "Is this professor a suspect?"

"Right now, he's our only suspect. Anything else?"

"Her blouse, or what was left of it, had patches of printer's ink on it, probably transferred from the killer's hands."

"Well, that's something."

"The killer was probably male, around 5' 8" to 5' 9", and right handed, according to the depth, direction and angle of the cut to her throat. " Dr. Morton shrugged. "Does that sound like your professor?"

"He was taller than five-nine," Hutch said. "He was almost taller then me."

"And how tall are you?" Starsky asked.

"About six-one."

"That doesn't rule out your professor; I can only give you an approximation," Dr. Morton said. "And that, I'm afraid, is your lot. We're still running a few tests, so I'll have a complete report on your desk tomorrow."

"Thanks, Mort," Starsky replied.

"See you, boys."

The detectives left as Dr. Morton pushed Annie's body back into its compartment. They headed for the evidence room.

Hutch was leaning against a rack by a metal table when Starsky brought the box of Annie's personal items over. The remains of her blood-soaked blouse were in an evidence bag. Her skirt, tights and underwear were in another.

Hutch took out her purse and looked through it. "Georgia driver's license, makeup… and there's about fifty bucks cash in here."

"There's a watch and some jewelry," Starsky said, picking up a bag. "So she wasn't mugged." He frowned. "Hey! There's some hair caught in this…" He tipped out the bag and picked up Annie's bracelet, tugging a few red hairs from the clasp. "I don't remember any of the other actors having red hair."

"They didn't," Hutch replied, "and neither did our chief suspect. It came from the killer?"

Starsky shrugged. "Maybe."

"Ugh," Hutch sighed. "Why can't this just be easy?" He looked through the rest of Annie's belongings.

"If it was easy, then the department wouldn't pay us such a terrific salary," Starsky said.

Hutch smirked. "Maybe when we solve this, they'll give us a day off and raise our pay to two or even three cents a week."

"Hey, now, don't get greedy," Starsky said with fake seriousness. "That kind of reward's only for the big stuff, like saving the president's daughter."

Hutch sighed. "A guy can dream, can't he?"

Starsky dropped the bag back into the box. "We need those test results."

"Yeah. Come on. And let's go get something to eat, I'm starving."

x x x

The body of Carolina Berkowitz was already several days old when a pair of teenagers discovered it in Bayview Park. They'd snuck into the bushes to make out but found a nasty surprise waiting for them instead. Half covered in dry leaves, the girl lay with her throat cut open and her chest covered with knife wounds.

When Starsky and Hutch arrived at the crime scene, they headed immediately to where the forensics team was already examining the gruesome remains. Hutch asked the investigator in charge to pull up the girl's shirt, and sure enough, an egg-shaped bruise was revealed on her stomach. "Same M.O.," he commented flatly.

Starsky simply shook his head and walked back to his car. Putting his hands on the roof, he looked out across the green lawn of the park. Hutch came up beside him, one hand rising to rest on his partner's shoulder and the other used to rub the bridge of his own nose.

"Young, dark-haired girl  the killer slashed her throat from behind, then kneeled on her to stab her in the chest," Starsky sounded disgusted.

"Damn," Hutch said emphatically. He turned to gaze out over the park. The sun was shining, and a group of kids was playing Frisbee. The scene looked so peaceful and innocent, with no hint of the horror that lay only yards away. "This morning we were working a crime of passion," he thought out loud, "and now we're working a serial?"

Starsky watched as the body was removed from the undergrowth and loaded into the back of an ambulance. The Frisbee players, too, had stopped to stare at what was happening.

"How many people before we can call it a serial?"

"I don't know," Hutch sighed.

"Then, please tell me this isn't a serial killer."

"This isn't a serial killer."

"I don't believe you."

"Neither do I."

The two men looked at one another, their faces lined with a shared fear – fear of what they had already found and, even greater, fear of what they might yet find.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Third Act**

Hutch walked into Captain Dobey's office, closing the door behind him. He took a seat beside his partner and set a pile of folders onto the desk.

"I started looking out of state," Hutch said. "I found two cases with the same M.O. as ours and another very similar. The earliest was back in February '73 in Boston: another young woman, Millie Taylor, found stabbed to death in her apartment." He paused to run a hand through his unkempt hair. "Her stomach had a bruise similar to the ones we found on our victims here, and she'd also torn out some of her assailant's hair –"

"Let me guess," Starsky interjected. "It was red."

Hutch nodded. "But her throat wasn't cut. Then… there was another one a year later in Chicago. Two dark-haired girls, same M.O. as here – one in June and the other in September."

"And now he's here," Dobey added gravely. "And who knows how many other places he's been in between."

"We're still checking on that," Hutch replied, "but it definitely looks like we've got a serial killer on the loose."

"Is there anything apart from how they looked that links these girls?" Dobey asked.

Starsky answered this time, "Annie Pierce: an actress born in Atlanta, middle-class Catholic family, good school. Millie Taylor: orphaned at 18, paid her way through college working at a Laundromat. Then there's Carolina Berkowitz, a Jewish hairdresser from a wealthy family; Amy Woodrow, a student from Connecticut; and Laura Manning, who worked at a diner."

Dobey closed his eyes and shook his head. "So that's it? We're dealing with a psychopath?"

"I hate to say it, but yes, that's what it looks like," Hutch said. "We've sent the details to a profiling expert. He can get back to us tomorrow."

"We also asked the Boston PD to send us Millie Taylor's case file. If she was our killer's first victim, then maybe she has some link to him."

"Okay," Dobey sighed, "but keep this under your hats. I don't want the media getting a hold of this and sending the city into a panic."

The detectives nodded, understanding perfectly the gravity of the situation. And, for once, Starsky closed the door quietly behind them as they left the office.

x x x

The sun was setting over the rooftops of Bay City, casting mellow light through the dirty glass of the squad-room window. Hutch struggled to stifle a yawn. Staring at paperwork for hours had given him a headache, and both he and his partner were famished.

"All right. Go home, both of you," Dobey said brusquely. "There's nothing else to be done until those reports come in tomorrow. And try to get some decent sleep; you're going to need it."

x x x

As winter drew on, three more bodies were found: the remains of two sisters in an apartment in Chinatown and the pathetic corpse of a young homeless woman by the docks. Starsky and Hutch had been pulled off their regular patrol and put in charge of the investigation, a team of 20 men serving under them. But not a single lead turned up anything.

They cataloged the progress of the case as the weeks dragged on, noting flurries of activity punctuating long periods of nothing. And it was getting harder and harder to silence the press.

With the discovery of the sixth body – that of a middle-class mother sprawled out on a suburban street – the media exploded. Suddenly, the city was gripped with panic. Young women began to dye their hair or wear wigs. People were afraid to go out after dark, and the police station was constantly hounded by the press and plagued with crank calls or anonymous tips that led nowhere.

One particularly wet and miserable night found Starsky and Hutch driving home, both almost at the point of collapse. They were hardly a step closer to finding their killer. The streets were eerily quiet, as if the city itself were afraid, and there seemed to be nothing the partners could do about it. Hutch leaned his head back against the headrest and pressed one hand to his forehead.

"You okay, pal?" Starsky asked.

Hutch looked at his friend and forced a smile. "About as good as you."

"Yeah? Well, I ain't getting a headache every 20 minutes," Starsky replied gently.

"I just want this damn case to break!" Hutch said, slamming his hand against the dash.

Starsky glanced over and decided to let the automotive abuse slide, just this once. "You, me and everyone else."

Hutch sighed, "I'm sorry."

"No problem. But just don't take it out on my car, okay?"

Hutch smirked, raising his hand again to pat the dashboard. "Sorry car."

Starsky thought it was probably the fatigue talking, otherwise Hutch would never apologize to the Torino. "She forgives you," he said. "She wants to get this guy, too."

Hutch raised his eyebrows. "She does, huh?" He looked out of the passenger-side window at the streaming rain. "Maybe we should get the feds in on this?"

"So they can look over what we've got so far and draw a blank too?" Starsky replied. "Face it, buddy; we got nothing."

Hutch yawned. "Starsk, you know what I really want right now?"

"The killer to walk into our office and confess?"

"Well, that would be nice. But there's something else."

"Oh?"

"I want a cheeseburger… with onions and relish and lettuce and tomato. And I want a strawberry milkshake."

"Uh-huh." Starsky smiled. "It's like you read my mind."

"And bacon," Hutch added.

"What's a cheeseburger without bacon?"

"Then I want to sleep for a month."

"I don't know about that," Starsky said, "but I know where we can get a burger."

x x x

Huggy Bear had barely seen his friends since they'd begun investigating the serial killings. They had dropped by his place once or twice, trying to get any information they could. But no one on the streets knew anything, or if they did, they were too scared to say it.

Huggy's initially broad smile dissolved into a frown of concern as his two favorite cops made their way into The Pits looking like they were about to pass out. "Hey, what's happening?" he said, forcing a cheerful air. "Long time no see."

"Hey, Hug," Starsky replied, leaning up against the bar. "Think we can get some food?"

"Of course. Kitchen's quieter then a mute mouse." Huggy quirked a half-smile. "What else can I do you for?"

"Business taken a hit lately, huh?"

The bartender shrugged, "Kinda. People are nervous, that's for sure. But it's going to take more then a cat with a knife to keep folks away from my famous food."

"That's good, Hug," Hutch said.

"So, what will you two fine fellows be partaking of this evening?"

"Two cheeseburgers," Starsky said, "with tomato and relish and lettuce and bacon."

"And onions," Hutch added.

"And onions," Starsky repeated. "And a strawberry milkshake and a chocolate one."

Huggy nodded matter-of-factly. "And what will Hutch be having?"

"Funny, Hug, funny," Starsky said.

Huggy hadn't been joking, but looking at the pair, he decided to drop the matter.

"We're gonna sit down," Starsky continued.

"Yeah, you better. You look like you're about to keel over."

"You have no idea," Hutch said, moving away from the bar. He slumped into a corner booth, and Starsky slid in opposite him.

"I don't know how much longer I can stand this, Starsk," the blond said softly. "There's a madman out there, and there's nothing we can do."

"He's got to slip up sooner or later…" Starsky said, although he knew it was an empty platitude.

Hutch's eyes reflected the hopelessness in his own. Neither detective wanted to see any more girls killed, but they were feeling powerless to protect them. The partners fell into silence, neither having the desire nor the energy to discuss the case further.

Huggy walked over and put a tray on the edge of the table, sliding a plate toward Hutch and the other toward Starsky. Then, he set down the two milkshakes, which Starsky promptly switched around. "I'm chocolate; _he's_ strawberry."

Huggy settled beside them. "So, what's happening with your case?"

"A big, fat zero," Hutch said. He picked up his milkshake, sipped it, and then took a bite out of his burger. "Thanks, Hug; this is perfect."

"Of course it is, my man. Casa de Huggy only serves the finest of the finest."

"I guess you haven't heard anything?"

"Sure I have. I've heard lotsa things," Huggy replied with a dejected shrug, "but only if you're looking for a six-foot-tall demon with knives for hands."

"A bunch of urban legends, huh?"

"Yup."

"Let's hear it then, Hug. At least it might give us a laugh."

"Well, sure." Huggy got himself settled. "The most popular theory is that he wears the skins of his victims as a mask."

"That's disgusting," Hutch said, "and ridiculous."

"Course it is. But people are frightened, Hutch. This mad slasher's got everyone on edge. They don't know where he is or what he looks like or…"

"Yeah, we know, Huggy!" Hutch snapped and then looked down at his burger. "Sorry…"

"Hey, I'm sorry," Huggy replied, raising his hands. "I know you guys are working your tails off. Hell, I can see it."

Starsky seemed to remember something suddenly and pulled out his wallet. "Say, how much for the burgers?"

Huggy shook his head. "Don't worry about it. This one's on the house; you look like you need it."

"Thanks, man."

Seeing another pair of customers enter the bar, Huggy stood up. "No problem, mi amigo. Enjoy your meal. I got customers."

The detectives waved at the retreating bartender and began eating in earnest. But even Starsky found he had to force the food down. His exhaustion was overwhelming, and all he wanted to do was sleep. He looked over and found his partner staring at the last third of his own burger.

"Hutch?" Starsky said. "Hey, Hutch! Buddy?"

Hutch's head snapped up. "Huh?"

"Time to go home."

"You okay to drive?"

"Yeah, I'm okay." Starsky shrugged. "Do you mind if I crash at your place?"

"Course not." Hutch stood up and took the plates back to the bar. Huggy smiled from his position beside the register and waved them off.

The torrent that met the detectives as they stepped out of The Pits helped wake them up a little. Starsky pulled the collar up on his jacket and fumbled for his car keys, while Hutch retreated back into the doorway of the bar, watching his partner carefully.

They were just climbing into the Torino, when the quiet of the night was shattered by a shrill scream. With barely a glance at one another, both men broke into a sprint in the direction of the cry. What happened next was a miracle – both for the frightened girl and for the detectives.

Melanie Draper had been returning home from a rock concert, dressed in leather and wearing her favorite metal-studded choker. And it was the choker that had saved her life.

As metal rasped across metal, she'd elbowed her attacker hard in the stomach, then struggled for the knife. The man had gotten a couple of good swipes in before the girl finally cried out, alerting the detectives.

Now, as Starsky and Hutch came careening around the corner, the situation quickly changed. Melanie fell sobbing into Starsky's arms, while Hutch, slipping on the rain-slick pavement, attempted to chase down the fleeing suspect. But by the time the blond regained his footing, the mysterious attacker had disappeared into the darkness.

x x x

The victim had been taken to Sacred Heart Hospital, and the two detectives were waiting for news. Starsky lay stretched out across the seats of the waiting room, quietly dozing. But Hutch was buzzing, pacing the floor like a caged tiger.

Starsky yawned, rubbed his eyes and sat up stiffly. He watched his partner for a moment. "What are you doing?"

Hutch looked at him, puzzled, "Huh?"

"Hutch, you were almost falling asleep at dinner two hours ago. You trying to make yourself pass out or something?"

"I tried to sleep. It didn't work."

Starsky thought he detected an edge of bitterness in Hutch's voice. "What's the matter?"

"The matter?" Hutch laughed incredulously. "I had him, Starsk! I had him right there, and I lost him! I lost him!"

Starsky stood up, stretching. "But we saved the girl…"

"But what about the next one? And the next one and the next one… I could have stopped this for good."

"Hey, I was there too, y'know?"

Hutch made a dismissive gesture. "I was right behind him. I should have been faster."

Starsky sighed. "All aboard the guilt train," he muttered. "Hutch, listen…"

"I should have been faster, damn it!" Hutch was shouting. He didn't realize he was, but adrenaline, frustration and exhaustion were beginning to wear him down. "But I wasn't, and he's out there. He's going to kill someone else, and it's gonna be _my fault_!" He spun around and punched the wall as hard as he could. Then, drained, he collapsed against it, resting his head on the cool bricks.

"Hey, partner…" Starsky said, pulling Hutch away from the wall gently. "You ain't Superman, okay?"

"But…"

"No buts," Starsky continued, guiding the blond to a chair. "We don't even know if it's the same guy." He paused a moment. Then, "You're shaking," he observed.

"So are you."

"I know. We're a mess."

"I just want this case to break before we do," Hutch said plaintively.

"Let's see your hand."

Hutch looked at his knuckles gravely before showing them to Starsky. "I didn't do anything. Haven't got the energy to punch right."

"Good," Starsky said firmly. "Now, never do that again, you idiot." He clipped Hutch around the back of the head.

A few moments later, a nurse entered the room to tell them they could see Melanie. The visit proved the final act of a very long day. The detectives finally crawled into bed at four o'clock in the morning.

**(TBC)**


	4. Chapter 4

_Sorry it's late, my internet stopped working. :-( _**  
**

**The Fourth Act**

Only an hour later, Roger Barton, editor of the "Bay City Chronicle," was arriving for work. A journalist for nearly 40 years, he had recently devoted much of the space in his paper to covering the search for the elusive "Night Slasher," as he'd christened the killer.

The editor bit into a toasted bagel and walked toward his office, waving absently at his secretary.

"Good morning, sir," the young woman greeted him, holding up a pile of envelopes. "I have your mail here."

Barton took the letters as he passed her desk, then entered his office and kicked the door shut. He put his bagel on his desk and used a pen to open up the first envelope. His correspondence was mostly uninteresting, and he dumped the letters into a metal waste-basket as he opened them. Until he came to a small, grubby envelope. On the front were the words "Edetor Bay Sity Cronakel." Frowning, Barton opened it and stared at the messily printed letter inside.

_I no you have been looking for me, I no I have done some terable things. I am a monster and I want too stop. He never lets me stop. He wants blud to keep him alive, he is krule and he hurts me if I dont do wat he sais. He must have blud. The wimin must be puneshed. I wach the wimin from the hole where he keeps me, then I must find blud for him from the evil wimin. I cut there throtes so they will not screem, and then I must kil there evil harts. They ar not wimin they ar devels. I keep my nee on them so they wont get away while I kil them. Then he wil drink the blud. I must be stoped with a bullet or I wil keep killing. Bruther Sam._

Barton re-read the letter twice and then frantically pressed the buzzer for his secretary.

"Yes, sir?"

"Get me the police on the phone, right now."

x x x

Hutch was seated facing Dobey's desk, while Starsky paced back and forth behind him. The captain watched the brunet for a moment and then looked at Hutch. "Well?"

Hutch turned the letter over in his hands. "This is definitely legit?"

Dobey nodded.

"Fingerprints?"

"None."

"The ink…"

"Same as the patches found on Annie Pierce."

Hutch sighed, setting the letter on Dobey's desk. "He's mocking us."

"We're going to send it down to a handwriting specialist…"

"What good will _that_ do?" Starsky snapped, leaning on the back of Hutch's chair. "So what if he dots his 'i's' to the left? That won't help us find the bastard!"

Hutch winced at his partner's tone of voice but kept his own mouth shut.

"That's enough, Starsky!" Dobey shouted back. "You think I don't want to catch this killer too?"

Starsky let go of the chair and started pacing again.

"Captain…" Hutch swallowed, "I'd like to request some leave."

"What?!" Starsky demanded.

But Hutch ignored him and carried on, "We need sleep. I could barely focus on the writing in that letter…. This is getting ridiculous."

"How" Starsky spluttered. "We _need _to get this guy. Hutch, what the hell…?"

The blond stood up. "Cap, two minutes?"

Dobey nodded, and Hutch proceeded to drag his furious partner into the hall.

"What the hell? You want to abandon the case now? Last night you were beating yourself up because you couldn't catch him, and now you're giving up?" Starsky yelled.

Hutch shook his head. "No, buddy," he said softly, "that's not what I'm saying."

"Then help me understand! You're asking for leave? And what? We're just supposed to let this jerk cut up some other girl?"

Hutch's expression turned hard. "No, Starsk. I want to _sleep_. I haven't slept in days, and I can see that you're not doing any better. Do you know what sleep deprivation does to a guy, huh? I'll tell you, it's not pretty." He glared at his friend fiercely. "We're not abandoning the case. There's a whole division of guys out there  good guys  doing their jobs, busting their asses to catch this freak, just like we are. I meant what I said in there, Starsk. I could hardly focus on that letter."

Hutch sighed, and his voice took on a pleading tone. "How do you think I'm going to be able to fire a gun? I've drunk so much coffee my hands are almost a blur. I can't watch your back if I'm more likely to shoot you than the suspect… I thought about that while I wasn't sleeping this morning. And, yeah, I'll feel guilty if this guy kills someone else, but I'll feel a hell of a lot worse if I get you killed. We need a break, bad."

The anger in Starsky's face dissolved. He wiped a hand over his eyes and then through his hair. Hutch looked like death warmed over, and Starsky doubted that he himself was faring much better.

"Look at us," Hutch said, smiling. "Any more of this and we'll frighten small children."

Starsky laughed, wondering how Hutch always managed to read his mind. "All right, I'm sorry."

"Just a couple of days, that's all."

Starsky nodded. "You're right. That is if Dobey lets us go."

Hutch patted his friend on the shoulder as they walked back into the captain's office.

"Well?" Dobey asked.

Hutch slipped back into his seat. "As I said, I'd like to request some leave. We just can't carry on like this."

Dobey looked at his two best men, frowning. "How much time do you think you'll need?"

"A couple of days at most," Starsky said. "Just to get some sleep for a change."

Dobey nodded. "Okay. You've got two days. I was going to suggest some time off anyway, but you beat me to the punch."

"Thanks, Cap," Hutch said, standing up.

Now, get out of here. I'll supervise the case until you get back. Meanwhile, don't get into any trouble."

Hutch nodded and walked out. Starsky saluted the captain and followed, kicking the door shut behind him.

Dobey rolled his eyes with a sigh. Then, he turned slowly toward the stack of reports waiting on his desk.

x x x

Brother Sam was making national headlines, and reports of murders were flooding into Bay City from all over the country. The killer had been an exceptionally busy boy, with 20 murders in five states now being attributed to him.

Bay City itself was falling into chaos. Lynch mobs were forming, and red-headed men were no longer safe on the streets without a hat or wig. The city was held firmly in the grip of fear; everyone knew it.

For some reason, Starsky seemed especially tuned into the overwhelming tension… And it was keeping him awake. He tossed and turned for what seemed hours but couldn't stop thinking about the case.

Finally giving up on sleep, he crawled out of bed walked to the fridge and took out a beer. Putting the bottle on the counter, he began to search for the bottle opener. The phone started to ring just as he opened a drawer, the sound drilling through his head like a siren screaming in his ears. He snatched it up angrily. "Yeah?"

"David, is that any way to answer the telephone?"

Starsky sighed, "Sorry, Ma."

"What's the matter? Are you having trouble at work?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"Are you eating all right? I know you boys work far too hard."

"I'm fine. What do you want?"

"Well, you didn't call me on Friday, and I was worried."

"Huh? What day is it now?"

"It's Saturday."

"Damn," Starsky muttered.

"David!"

"Uh… sorry, Ma."

"Where on earth did you pick up language like that?"

Starsky rolled his eyes.

"I'm sure Ken doesn't use those sort of words."

_Ken sure as hell does_, Starsky thought. _He's pulled out some choice words that surprised even me_.

"Was there something you wanted? I'm kinda tired and, uh…"

"I just wanted to check you were all right. I've been hearing a lot about this killer in Bay City, and I want you to be safe."

"Ma, I don't think I'm in any danger."

"If he's as crazy as everyone says he is… well, then you never know."

"He targets women. In fact, I should be the one telling _you_ to be safe."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous! I'm hundreds of miles away."

"And I'm a cop," Starsky sighed again. "I'll be fine."

"How's Ken? That boy was all skin and bones when I saw him last. I hope you make him eat properly."

Starsky shook his head. "Yeah, Ma, he's fine. Listen, I'd love to talk to you, but I really need some sleep."

"Oh, okay. I'm sorry, honey," Mrs. Starsky sounded disappointed. "You need your rest. Give Ken my love… and be careful."

"Okay, Ma. Love you."

"I love you, too, hon. Bye-bye."

Starsky put the phone down and looked around his apartment. Realizing he wasn't going to get

any sleep for a while, he got dressed and went out for a walk.

x x x

Hutch woke up at five in the evening, threw on a bathrobe and moved toward the kitchen to make some dinner. As he passed the couch, he paused and did a double-take. His partner was sprawled out on the cushions, peacefully asleep.

"That's funny," Hutch muttered as he crossed to the kitchen. "Don't remember leaving that there."

"Gmnah?"

"Hey, Starsk," Hutch replied, leaning on the counter and watching his partner come to.

"What the hell?" Starsky blinked at Hutch and then rubbed a hand over his face. "What are you doing here?"

"I live here," Hutch replied.

Starsky looked around. "What am _I_ doing here?"

Hutch shrugged. "How should I know? Would you like some dinner?"

"Uh, yeah. I guess."

Hutch busied himself about the kitchen, while Starsky tried to recover his bearings.

"Hutch?"

"Yeah?"

"When did I get here?"

"I don't know," Hutch replied. "You must have used your key."

Starsky yawned. "What time is it?"

"Five-fifteen."

"Wow! I've been asleep for over six hours."

"On my couch?"

Starsky stretched out. "Guess so."

Something crashed, and Hutch swore loudly.

Starsky smirked. "Ma would be disappointed in you if she heard that language."

"Yeah? She could start a club with my mother," Hutch muttered darkly. "But y'know, I'm fine and everything. Don't get up," he added loudly.

Starsky settled back into a sleeping position. "Wake me when it's ready."

"It's ready as soon as you pick up the phone and order it," Hutch shouted back. He returned from the kitchen and slumped into a chair. "I'm too tired to cook."

"Oh," Starsky said, yawning. "What do you want?"

"Chinese."

Starsky leaned over the arm of the couch and plucked the receiver off the cradle. The number for the closest takeout was on a pad beside the phone. He dialled, rattled off an order from memory and replaced the receiver, before lying back down with a sigh.

Looking over at Hutch, he frowned. The blond had fallen asleep where he sat. Starsky settled in himself and closed his eyes. He didn't waken again until the doorbell announced the arrival of dinner.

**(TBC)**


	5. Chapter 5

_Hi guys, hope you all had a good holiday x_**  
**

**The Fifth Act**

Three days later, a Bay City patrolman discovered yet another body. Starsky's heart broke at the expression on his partner's face when the news was announced over the police band. He watched in agonized silence as Hutch squeezed his eyes shut and slumped in the passenger seat; he reached out impulsively to rest one hand on the blond's bowed shoulders.

"Hutch, it's not your fault."

"Whose fault is it then?" Hutch asked quietly.

"How 'bout this 'Brother Sam' guy, huh? I'm pretty set on blaming him."

"But I let him get away."

Starsky rolled his eyes. "Don't be ridiculous."

"But I –"

"Hutch, don't make me smack you!" Starsky said in his best no-nonsense voice. "I swear to God, you keep beating yourself up over this and I'll kick your ass all the way back to Minnesota. Got it?"

Hutch couldn't hold back a smile. "Got it."

"I mean it. This ain't your fault."

Hutch shrugged, gazing out the side window. "_We_ lost him? Is that better?"

"A little."

"Fine. Only I don't blame you."

Starsky brought the car to an abrupt halt, almost launching Hutch into the dashboard. "Holy…!" the blond yelped, startled out of his mood.

"We're here," Starsky announced helpfully.

"Jesus, Starsk. Give a guy a heart attack, why don't you?"

"Well, why aren't you wearing your seatbelt?" Starsky opened the car door and exited in one smooth movement.

"Why aren't I…?" Hutch scowled as he got out to follow his partner, having to jog a little to catch up. "It's the _driver's_ responsibility to ensure all passengers are wearing their seatbelts."

Starsky shrugged and headed towards the crime scene.

The body lay sprawled in a burned-out grocery store. The fire had happened weeks ago, but no one had gotten around to cleaning up the site. As the detectives stepped through the blackened doorway, the smell of burned wood and plastic, mingled with the sweet reek of decaying flesh, caught in their nostrils.

"I'd say the victim's been dead at least three weeks," the forensics specialist said, as Starsky and Hutch came up beside him, "but it's definitely your slasher's M.O."

Starsky felt relief at hearing that piece of information. There was no way Hutch could blame himself for this one.

He watched for a while, as the specialist continued to examine the corpse. The smell was making his eyes water, however, and eventually he headed back outside. Moments later, his partner joined him.

"Just because we didn't find a fresh body, doesn't mean he didn't kill someone else..." Hutch muttered darkly.

Starsky responded by thumping him on the arm.

"Ow!"

"I warned you," Starsky said evenly.

"Jackass," came the mumbled reply.

x x x

Hutch collapsed into his chair in the squad room, eyeing the new stack of files on his desk with suspicion. The top file was labelled "Millie Taylor." He picked it up and opened it.

Starsky sat down across from him and picked up the next file on the stack. "Millie Taylor? I thought we went over her file?" he asked, glancing over at what Hutch was reading.

"We did," Hutch said, "but it looks like something new came up." He turned to the next page. "An ex-cop who was working on her case… he's been living in Canada, but he contacted his old precinct when he saw 'Brother Sam' on the news."

"And?"

"And he remembered something: Millie was seeing someone about the time she was murdered. Nobody knew who the guy was, but it seems she knew him from the Sisters of Mercy orphanage."

"Profile says, 'abandonment issues'." Starsky said. "Anything else?"

"No. The cop didn't remember much, and he retired just a little later."

"That doesn't give us a whole lot."

"It gives us something," Hutch said. He leaned on his desk, thinking.

"Yeah, it'll give us the name of every kid who passed through that orphanage for, what, 20 years? That's hardly gonna help. I mean, do we just look for ones called 'Brother Sam'?"

"Cynicism doesn't suit you, Starsk," Hutch replied. "Besides, we don't need every name. In '73, Millie was 20, right? She'd have been out of care since she was 18; so we can rule out anyone who entered after 1970, at least."

"That still doesn't help. For all we know, the guy coulda been working there."

Hutch sighed, "Well, right now, it's all we've got."

x x x

The "Bay Herald" was Bay City's second largest paper. The morning edition had already gone to press when the editor demanded an immediate change to the front page. All of the printed papers were quickly pulled, and the former headline, "Another Brother Sam Victim," was reset to read, "Another Brother Sam Letter."

At the 9th Precinct, a young officer brought an early copy into the squad room and solemnly handed it to Starsky. Hutch, on the telephone, was unaware of the latest news until he put the receiver down and turned to his partner. "What's that?"

"The 'Herald,'" Starsky said, holding up the front page.

Hutch's expression became unreadable. "Well?"

Starsky turned back to the article he'd been studying. "Dear Bay Herald…" he read out loud. "I am a terrible person. I have killed women, but I want to stop. Billy won't let me stop. He is cruel and hurts me when I do not do what he says. Sometimes my head feels like it will blow up. I want to stop, but I can't. I must be killed, because I am evil. Signed Brother Sam." He paused and glanced across the desk at his friend. "Looks like the same handwriting, spelling…"

Hutch sat back in his chair and thoughtfully chewed the end of his pencil. "He wants to get caught; he doesn't want to get caught…"

"He wants the attention."

Hutch nodded. "So, who the hell's Billy?"

"Who knows? His accomplice? His boyfriend? The tiny goblin living in his fingers?" Starsky replied. "All I know is that we're sitting here, sifting through piles of worthless crap, while Nutty McFruitloop is writin' love letters to the press."

Hutch smirked, keeping his eyes on the papers in front of him.

"And you know what?" the brunet continued. "He's really starting to get to me. Do you have any idea how long it's been since I was on a date? I'm pretty sure Josie thinks I'm dead, and Cathy's stopped calling… I don't know, what, six weeks ago?" He sighed. "If this guy wants attention, why doesn't he just turn himself in? When we catch this guy, I swear he's gonna get all the attention from me he wants 'cause my boot's gonna be rammed up his – "

"Starsk?" Hutch said sweetly. "Shut up."

"I hate you," Starsky returned lightly. "Hey, what's up? You get some sleep, and suddenly you're cheerful as hell. And… it's bugging the hell outta me!"

Hutch tapped his well-chewed pencil on the pad of paper in front of him, ignoring Starsky completely. "I was talking to the director of the orphanage. She's been working there for almost 30 years, and she remembered something."

Starsky settled back, suddenly interested. "Oh?"

"Sam Greening, a red-headed kid who got into a lot of trouble. Apparently, he used get his kicks by dropping small animals off the roof."

"Nice," Starsky said. "Now, _he_ sounds like a good suspect."

"Seems he was caught making out with Millie Taylor on more than one occasion. And when the director attempted to call his birth mother, she refused any contact."

"Ding-ding, we have a winner!" Starsky said. "Any clue what happened to him?"

"I'm not sure, but the director did give me the birth mother's name. I'm going to see what happened to her. I'm thinking Sam may have tried to find her or maybe even tried to contact her again."

"Then what are you waiting for, dummy? Get dialing!"

Hutch raised a finger just as the phone rang. "Ah-ha." He picked up the receiver, flashing a smile at his partner. "Hutchinson. Yes…"

The blond listened intently for a while, then nodded. "Thank you. You've been a great help." He put the receiver down and leaned forward. "Sam's birth mother, Ellen Hailey, was found stabbed to death two days before Millie Taylor. She died trying to protect her ten-year-old son, William, from an unknown assailant." Hutch paused and shook his head. "Seems he was playing in the backyard when he started screamed. She went to find out what the matter was and got killed for it."

"And then the flake goes and kills Millie," Starsky said. A slow grin spread across his face. "This has got to be him. It's gotta be."

Hutch stood up, gathering his notes. "We can get a photo from the orphanage. We've almost got him, partner."

In answer, Starsky vaulted over the desk and threw his arms around Hutch in a quick, fierce hug. Startled, Hutch laughed and hugged his friend back. They were both still smiling as they went to brief their captain.

(TBC)


	6. Chapter 6

**The Sixth Act**

The Westinghouse Printing Co. had gone out of business in December 1973, and although a private investor had bought the building a year later, along with its ancient typesetting equipment, he had never redeveloped the property. Thus, it sat in the old manufacturing district, an imposing art-deco structure that was merely a decaying shell.

Most of the high, half-moon windows were broken, and the doors were boarded shut. Inside, the rooms were dark. The harsh beams of light falling through the windows only illuminated the dust and made the shadows deeper.

On a raised platform at the back of the building was the office Sam Greening had made his home. A small, scrawny tomcat squeezed itself through the boards covering the glassless window and dropped onto the top of a filing cabinet with a thud. At the sound, Sam – who had been sitting huddled in his bed, staring blankly at the wall – looked up. He gazed at the cat with wide, haunted eyes.

"You came back," he said softly. "I was starting to think you wouldn't…"

The cat barely acknowledged the young man, as it sniffed around the room.

"I d-did what you said," Sam continued, sounding like a lost child. "Do you think… C-can we stop now, Billy? I don't want to… I don't want to hurt people any more. I just wanna go home." He sniffled, still pleading with the stray: "Billy, please… p-please, please…."

Sam clutched at his head, beginning to sway. "No. N-no… stop! I didn't mean it, Billy. I didn't mean it. Really, I'll do whatever you want… No! Please, Billy… It hurts. Oh God, it hurts…" He was now fiercely clawing at his own face, screaming and sobbing as he rocked and rocked. "Stop. Please stop! No more… I'll get you another girl! I swear; I swear!"

The young man shook his head, squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and then suddenly quieted. Cautiously, he looked up at the cat through red-rimmed eyes, his face wet with tears.

The tom was staring curiously at him, its attention caught by the noise Sam had been making. The man leaned forward and started to crawl toward it on his hands and knees. "Please, make it stop, Billy," he begged one last time. "I can't stand it any more…"

The cat backed away from the movement, hopped onto the desk and then sprang back to the top of the filing cabinet. Frantically, Sam scrambled after it. But as he drew near, the cat bolted back through the window.

"Billy!" Sam screamed after it. "Billy, don't leave me alone!" He fell back from the wall, panting; then his gaze locked on a large kitchen knife lying across the desktop. "I don't want to be alone."

He picked up the knife slowly, staring at it half in fascination, half in fear. "I **won't** be alone… not ever again."

x x x

Honey Leblanc couldn't remember her real name or how long she'd been working the streets. Drugs had burned those memories away a long time ago, and truthfully she didn't care. Standing on the corner of Jefferson and 42nd, she knew what her job was, and she enjoyed it. Moreover, she was aware that many of the other 'girls' had stayed home that evening, afraid of Brother Sam. So, business would be good.

She took a long drag of her cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly, checking up and down the street for any signs of customers. When a young man finally wandered toward her, she put on her most seductive smile. "Hey there, sweetie, you lookin' for some fun?"

The man stopped and stared at her glassy-eyed.

Honey rolled her own eyes; she knew a junkie when she saw one. Turning away disappointed, she ran one hand through her dark brown hair.

"Excuse me?" a quiet voice behind her questioned.

"Yeah?" With a sigh, she turned back to face the young man.

"A-are you a natural brunette?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He smiled awkwardly. "I want you to come with me…"

Honey sighed again, "You got any money?"

"Oh, yes." The man nodded and pulled a bunch of bills out of his pocket. "I don't live too far away."

Honey nodded, dropping her cigarette to the pavement and grinding it under her shoe. "Okay, hon, let's go."

x x x

A lone patrolman sat in his car opposite an all-night burger joint, waiting patiently for his partner to come back. The hour was approaching midnight, and he was getting sleepy. Winding down the driver's side window to try and displace some of the sticky heat, he leaned his head out into the night air. But it didn't help.

A few minutes later, though, he straightened up. His partner was dashing toward him across the road, two brown bags clutched in his hands.

"Sorry for the wait, man," the other officer said, slipping into the car. "They had this guy behind the counter, I swear he was Russian or something. Didn't have a clue what I was saying."

"Who cares? Just hand over the food; I'm starving."

"Just warning you, it might not be what you expect."

"T.J., I don't care if it's a puppy in a bun. I'm gonna eat it."

T.J. smirked. "I hear that." He dug into his own bag. "Oh, hey! This is almost what I ordered." He pulled out a paper-wrapped burger. "What'd you get, Sonny?"

"Just a plain, ol' cheeseburger and pickles," Sonny replied. "Or, as I call it, the food of the gods!" He took a huge bite and leaned his head back with a satisfied sigh.

"Did you hear, they've got a name for this Brother Sam, now?"

"Huh?" Sonny swallowed. "They do?"

"Yeah. He's some kid from Boston… killed his mom and then his girlfriend, before going off on his little cross-country spree."

"Well, that'll make this manhunt a hell of a lot easier."

T.J. nodded. "Yeah. Still won't be easy, but it'll help."

"Nothing's easy, Teej," Sonny sighed. "So, what's the guy's name?"

"Sam Greening," T.J. replied around a mouthful of burger.

"That's disgusting! Didn't your mom ever tell you not to talk with your mouth full?"

"Blow me," T.J. countered good-naturedly.

"Oh, real classy," Sonny said, shaking his head. "You're all charm, buddy."

T.J. shrugged. "Who cares? Anyway, who was it that _accidentally_ filled Paulie's pockets with lukewarm Jell-O the other day?"

"Now… that was a legitimate mistake. How was I to know the package had a hole in it?"

"And the fact that the stuff was still runny?"

"Well, it wasn't like that when I bought it," Sonny replied evenly. "Besides, that has nothing to do with good manners. _I_ was trying to give a friend a little present. Now, _you_… you're just a slob."

"A friend!" T.J. spluttered. "You're the one called Paulie a tu – "

He was interrupted by dispatch calling over the radio. "All units in the vicinity of Jefferson Avenue, report of a hysterical woman running towards Filtch's Arcade."

The two patrolmen glanced at each other, as T.J. picked up the microphone. "This is Ocean 13; we are in the vicinity and responding."

Sonny pulled the car into the stream of traffic and flicked on the Mars light.

"Roger that, Ocean 13. Control out."

"Hysterical woman, huh?" T.J. mused.

It didn't take long for the squad car to reach Jefferson, and the partners scoured both sides of the street as they cruised slowly along.

"There!" Sonny exclaimed, pulling up alongside the curb and jumping out of the vehicle. T.J followed close on his heels.

A dark-haired woman was stumbling towards them, sobbing and dishevelled. Her makeup was running in heavy streaks down her face, and she wasn't wearing shoes. Somehow, her clothes had been ripped to shreds.

As the patrolmen came alongside her, the woman collapsed into T.J.'s arms and passed out.

x x x

Back at Sacred Heart Hospital, an eerie feeling of déjà vu haunted Starsky and Hutch. When they turned down a familiar-looking corridor, they found Sonny waiting for them outside the victim's room. He half-smiled as they approached.

"Hi ya, Sonny." Starsky extended his hand.

"Good to see you again, Starsky."

"What've you got?"

"Her name's Honey Leblanc. Busted a few times for possession and prostitution, and from what we hear, she's loopy from the drugs. But I dunno, man; she was real scared."

"She claims it was Sam Greening?" Hutch asked.

"Well, she called him, 'Brother Sam.' That's the name she heard him use. _Said_ she heard, anyway."

"You don't believe her?"

"I don't know." Sonny shook his head and shrugged. "The way she was acting, what she was saying… I think it either really happened, or she genuinely believes it did." He nodded toward the door. "To be honest, guys, I don't think you'll be getting much out of her."

Hutch nodded. "Thanks." He patted Sonny on the arm and opened the hospital room door.

Lying silently in the hospital bed, Honey looked terrified. But T.J. was with her, and he put his hand on hers. "It's okay; these two are cops. You're safe."

The woman swallowed hard. "Let's s-see some badges."

Hutch slowly took out his identification and held it up. Starsky did the same. After a moment, Honey relaxed slightly. "H-have you c-caught him?"

"Not yet," Hutch said, moving to stand beside the bed. "We need you to tell us what happened."

"Oh, God…" Honey shook her head. "No, no! I can't… I won't."

"Miss Leblanc…"

"No!" she screamed. "No! Leave me alone! Leave me alone!" She began to sob, and once again T.J. attempted to comfort her. But this time, the young woman lashed out at him.

Standing up, the patrolman motioned the detectives to the other side of the room. "She's beginning to suffer withdrawal," he said quietly, "that on top of whatever else happened to her."

"Whatley's old printing company," Honey suddenly said, sniffing. "Th-that's where he t-took me."

"You're sure?"

The woman nodded and then buried her face into the pillows, sobbing once again.

"I guess it's a start," Starsky mumbled to himself.

"Make sure she gets the help she needs," Hutch told T.J. firmly.

The patrolman nodded. "Good luck, guys," he said, as he resumed his seat at the stricken woman's bedside.

x x x

Starsky revved the Torino's engine expectantly at the tenth red light he'd encountered so far, willing it to turn green. Although the partners weren't anticipating trouble at the print shop, they had still arranged to meet three other units there.

"Whatley Westinghouse…" Hutch muttered. "Now, _there_was a loon."

"Yeah," Starsky chuckled. "He was always driving around in that converted golf cart."

Hutch smiled, remembering. "Oh, yeah! He painted it bright orange and stuck a flag on top."

"Then, he hooked that trailer to the back, so he could carry around his leaflets. Man, whatever happened to that guy?"

"I heard his son got killed in 'Nam," Hutch said, turning serious. "Broke the old guy completely."

"But didn't he have _two_kids?"

"The first one drowned in the bay; don't you remember? Bunch of rich teenagers were getting drunk on a yacht, and Whatley's kid fell in. They said that's what made him crazy in the first place."

Starsky gave a low whistle. "I remember that now. After that, he went around petitioning the city to have the bay drained."

"They never did find the kid," Hutch replied.

The lights changed colour, and Starsky drove on towards the old manufacturing district. The buildings became more ornate, yet increasingly derelict, as the partners progressed toward the district's centre.

"Look at all these places," Hutch said. "I bet there's someone slavering for the real estate around here."

Starsky glanced up at the buildings. "An' I bet this place used to look real nice when it was new."

"Uh-huh. Mom sent me a care package once with a Bay City guidebook she'd found – from about 1954, I think. Had a couple of nice pictures of this place."

"Oh, hey, I remember that. It was our third week at the academy."

"And_everyone_ wanted to know what I'd gotten."

"Well, they thought it was food," Starsky replied. "They were disappointed when it wasn't."

"So was I! I appreciated the thought and all, but what was I going to do with 12 back-copies of the 'Duluth News Tribune,' an out-of-date guidebook and a box of a thousand paperclips?"

"Weren't those our Christmas decorations that year?"

Hutch grinned. "Yeah, I remember. We cut up the papers and strung them together with the clips –"

"There it is!" Starsky interrupted, nodding at the printing company up ahead.

"Ink spots on the victims, Starsk. It all makes sense now."

"But do you think he's still in there?"

"He'd be an idiot if he was."

"Well, he's not known for being real sensible," Starsky replied, as he parked his car next to some dumpsters behind a neighbouring building.

Hutch, meanwhile, had picked up the radio. "This is Zebra-Three," he said. "We've arrived at the Westinghouse Printing Co. and are awaiting instructions."

"Roger that, Zebra-Three. Stand by for Captain Dobey."

Starsky drummed out a tune on the steering wheel, and Hutch watched him in bemused silence, as they waited for their captain's voice to come through the speaker.

"Everyone's in position," Dobey said at last. "I want Crabbe and Vasquez watching the front and Wilkes and Minetti around the back. The rest of you, check out that building! Be careful though – and _thorough._ I don't want you missing anything."

A chorus of 'rogers' followed the captain's orders.

Hutch replaced the mike, took out his gun and checked it, noting that Starsky did the same. Then, moving together, the partners got out of the car and made their way toward the printing company.

The air inside of the old building was fetid and dusty. Starsky had to cover his nose to keep from sneezing. As they crept through the shadows of the silent machines, a feeling of cold foreboding overtook the two detectives.

Hutch tightened his grip on his Magnum and focused on the grey shapes before him, searching for even the slightest movement. The walkie-talkie crackled on his belt, and he startled, trigger finger twitching reflexively. He pulled the portable radio free and clicked it on.

"Do any of you have anything?" he whispered, backing up to one of the machines, so he could keep a clear view to each side.

"Negative," replied one of the other officers. "Nothing but rotting paper and dried ink."

"Same over here," said the second, "but throw a couple crates in the mix."

"Starsk?" Hutch continued anxiously. After all, their quarry specialized in silent kills.

"Nada," Starsky said. "Not even a roach."

Hutch frowned. "Okay. Just keep your eyes peeled."

"Aye, aye, Cap'n," Starsky signed off with a grin.

Hutch rolled his eyes and replaced the walkie-talkie on his belt.

The partners had entered through the front door, Starsky choosing to move along the right-hand wall, as he usually did. The arrangement kept his dominant hand free to shoot – or sucker-punch – anyone foolhardy enough to attack him.

Now, he had his gun out, hand tightly wrapped around the grip, with his every sense on high alert. He knew the other two officers were coming in from the fire escape and the loading dock in hopes that by the time they all reached the middle, Brother Sam would be waiting there._Like herding a sheep_, he thought with a wry grin.

A rustling sound over to his left alerted the detective, and he quickened his pace. Starsky knew Hutch would be moving a little faster in his eagerness to catch the killer, and the brunet didn't want his partner getting too far ahead.

Hutch wasn't known for his recklessness. But sometimes that bit of self-knowledge wrong-footed the blond, and he rushed headfirst into things, thinking he was acting rationally. Starsky, himself, had always believed it was better to acknowledge your own recklessness than to deny it. It could give you a guard against your own rash actions.

A sudden shout broke his train of thought and electrified Starsky into action. He knew that voice, and it spurred him on as no other could. But the deep shadows and abandoned rubbish hindered his movement, and he found himself stumbling repeatedly as he tried to get to where he had last seen his partner. An obvious struggle was happening on the far side of the print shop. As Hutch cried out in pain again, Starsky redoubled his efforts. He launched himself forward, only to slip and fall over some of the old papers.

"Huuutch!" he shouted, hoping for reassurance his friend was still conscious, praying the other officers had heard the commotion. Struggling to his feet, Starsky cursed himself soundly for not carrying a flashlight. The room was not completely dark, but all he could see was a mass of unhelpful, grey shapes. They seemed an endless barrier, and Starsky hated them for stopping him from reaching his partner.

A moment later, he heard more shouting. Then came a loud crash, followed by two sharp gunshots that echoed terribly around the vast room. Starsky scrambled over the last remaining yards and jumped through a gap between two huge printing machines, skidding hard into the opposite wall. Clutching his right shoulder carefully with his left hand, he turned around slowly to look for his partner.

**(TBC)**


	7. Chapter 7

**The Final Act**

Hutch was leaning against one of the huge printing machines, arm braced across his chest and blood streaming from slashes across both sleeves. The most noticeable injury was a long gash across his collarbone. Sam Greening lay near his feet, a bloody heap on the print shop floor. The killer's face was pale, and two fresh bullet wounds gaped in his chest.

Starsky stepped around the dead man, and looked Hutch over, gauging the blond's injuries as best he could in the poor light.

"He jumped me," Hutch muttered, "but I was a bit taller than he was used to."

"Yeah?" Starsky took Hutch's gun and flicked the safety on. He wasn't really listening to his partner.

Hutch nodded. He was already feeling light-headed, and his cuts were beginning to hurt badly. "So what's it with me and slashers?" he mumbled. "I never do anything to them; why do they always come after me?"

Starsky shrugged. "I don't know, partner. Must be your natural charm…"

At that moment, the other officers arrived, flourishing their guns and visibly disappointed they'd missed all the action.

"We found his 'bedroom' back there," one of them said matter-of-factly. Then, he glanced at Hutch and frowned. "Hey, man, are you all right?"

"Sort this out," Starsky ordered. "I'm taking my partner to the hospital."

The officers nodded, as Starsky pulled Hutch away from the machinery, put an arm around his waist and led the blond out of the factory.

"Where we going?" Hutch said, his voice slurring slightly.

"Hospital… to get you sewn up and some blood put back in," Starsky replied.

"'M all right," Hutch protested, attempting to demonstrate his fitness by pushing Starsky away. He almost took a header onto the floor before his partner caught him. "Well… maybe not… actually." He swallowed convulsively. "Starsk, 'm not feeling s'good."

"Yup." The front door was in sight. "Just a little further."

"'M gonna bleed all over your car," Hutch said, forlornly. His sleeves and the front of his shirt were now soaked with blood, and Starsky realized he should be trying to stop the flow. He sat Hutch down near the door and ran for the Torino, driving it to the front of the print shop with a squeal of tires. He grabbed the first aid kit from under the seat and ran back to his partner, kneeling down and taking out the bandages,

"Sorry, Hutch, I should've done this sooner," Starsky said, grimacing at the sight of the wounds in daylight. "A lot sooner…" He carefully peeled the sticky fabric of Hutch's sleeves up and tightly bandaged his arms; then he balled up some gauze and pressed it against the blond's shoulder, earning a hiss of pain. "Sorry, buddy."

"Least it was the top, huh?"

"What?" Starsky looked up and saw Hutch's eyes beginning to glaze over. He hauled his partner to his feet and practically dragged him to the car.

"Of my arms," Hutch said. "Otherwise, we'd be in real trouble, huh?"

"You just keep your hand on that gauze." Starsky helped Hutch into the passenger seat. "Looks like you put up one hell of a fight."

"Little bastard was quick," Hutch said bitterly.

"I'm sorry I couldn't get there to help you." There was guilt in Starsky's voice.

"Huh?" Hutch looked at his partner and frowned. "Get where?"

Starsky decided the best way to assuage his guilt was to get Hutch to hospital in record time. He slammed the car into gear, slapped the Mars light on the roof and tore off towards Bay City Memorial.

x x x

The Torino's left front tire was barely within the parking lines, and the rear right was way outside, but Starsky figured he could come back and park properly later.

Hutch was woozy as he got out of the car, partly from blood loss and partly from his partner's driving. The bandages were soaked through now, and the blond was trailing droplets of blood as Starsky half-carried him to the ER.

The hospital was surprisingly quiet, and Hutch was immediately rushed off for painkillers, stitches and a blood transfusion. Starsky, however, was forced to linger at the desk and fill out forms. When he was finished, he went to straighten out his car.

A nurse was looking for him by the time he retuned. She greeted him warmly.

"How's he doing?" Starsky asked anxiously.

"He'll be just fine. Once we got all the blood cleaned off, it wasn't as bad as it looked. The doctor is sewing him up even as we speak, and we've given him a local and some antibiotics to ward off infection." The nurse paused and looked at the brunet questioningly. "Do you know if he's had a tetanus shot recently?"

­_Probably the last time he was stabbed,_ Starsky thought. "Yeah, I think so. Isn't it in his records?"

"Sometimes it's quicker to ask," the nurse replied.

"Can I go see him?"

"Sure. The doctor's with him now, practicing his cross-stitch."

Starsky smiled and stepped past her, but the nurse stopped him. "Don't you want to know what room?"

"Often as he's been here, I'm surprised they haven't given him his own wing," Starsky sighed.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. Which room is it?"

"203. Down the hall, on the left."

"Thanks." Starsky flashed the nurse a bright grin and strode off towards Room 203. As he entered, he found his partner sitting on the hospital bed getting his shoulder sewn up.

"Hey, pal," the brunet said cheerfully.

The doctor paused his work and looked around. "You must be Starsky."

"I see my reputation precedes me." Starsky pulled up a chair and turned it around to sit backwards on it. "So, what's the diagnosis, doc? Am I gonna have to apply for a new partner?"

Hutch fixed him with a glare, but Starsky ignored it.

"Hardly," the doctor said. "The knife glanced off the bone."

"Damn!" Starsky replied in mock frustration. "I'm gonna have to try harder next time."

The doctor tut-tutted but didn't glance back up.

"Will you stop pestering the guy, Starsk?" Hutch said.

"Sure. We don't want him to slip an' sew your fingers together or something."

Hutch rolled his eyes and casually examined the IV draining into him. "I feel kinda sorry for the kid."

"Who?"

"Sam."

"Oh."

"Something in his brain was just totally broken."

"I'd say a lot of things," Starsky replied.

"Maybe."

The doctor finished up the last stitch and leaned back. "All done. When that IV's finished you'll be free to go. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how to take care of your stitches. No heavy lifting or strenuous activity for a while, either."

"Right," Hutch said. The doctor looked at Starsky, who also nodded.

"I'll take good care of him, doc," he said, grinning at Hutch's apprehensive glance.

The doctor stood up and straightened out his coat. "Goodbye, Mr. Hutchinson, Mr. Starsky."

Starsky watched him leave, before turning back to his partner. "So, how do you feel?"

Hutch shrugged and winced immediately. "Ow. Remind me not to do that."

"I'm sorry I wasn't quick enough to help you out," Starsky said.

"Tripped over all the junk, huh?" Hutch smirked. "No wonder you're so filthy."

"Is it just me, or does this whole thing feel totally surreal to you?"

"You mean now that Brother Sam is dead?"

"Yeah. Seems kind of… anti-climactic, y'know?"

"You would have preferred explosions? A shootout? Me getting decapitated?"

"Don't even joke about it, pal," Starsky said firmly. "For a minute there, I really thought he'd gotten you."

Hutch yawned, "It's going to take more than some messed-up kid to finish me, partner."

Starsky looked away. Then he nodded and stood up. "I'm going to call Dobey. I'll be back."

Hutch closed his eyes and waved vaguely in the direction of Starsky's voice. By the time the door swung shut he was asleep.

x x x

Captain Dobey had come down to the printing company to see Brother Sam for himself. He arrived just as two paramedics wheeled out the corpse in a body bag. Dobey frowned, holding his hand up to stop the men. He pointed at a scrawny, flea-bitten alley cat sitting on the dead man's chest. As the captain drew closer, it stood, back arched, hissing and baring its teeth.

"What the hell is that cat doing on there? Get it off!" Dobey ordered.

The two paramedics looked at one another dubiously.

Dobey motioned for one of his officers to come over. "Where did this cat come from?"

The officer shrugged. "It showed up just after Sergeant Starsky took his partner to the hospital. It just sat there by the kid's body howling like nothin' I've ever heard." He paused and shook his head. "It almost took out Vasquez' eye when he tried to get rid of it. We managed to scare it off for a minute by shooting the floor; that's how they got the body bagged, but then it just came right back and hopped up there."

Dobey frowned at the hissing cat, then suddenly backed off when a shiver ran up his spine. "Okay. Let's get moving."

The cat immediately calmed down when the gurney began to move, and if Dobey hadn't known better, he might have even said it was smiling.

Fin.

_Well, there it is guys! Tell me what you think. :- ) Thanks again to e-pony for beta and constant support, and all of you who've read, reviewed, enjoyed, or clicked this fic by accident. I hoped you liked it! _


End file.
